Skyrim is Strange
by HelloMyNameIsEd
Summary: With Dragons flying around burning everything in sight you'd think that things in Skyrim are crazy enough... but sometimes Skyrim likes to prove just how illogical things can really get, because when you get down to it, Skyrim really is a strange place. This story will attempt to chronicle such moments of insane occurrences where logic and reason fail to grant explanations.
1. Wolves of the Wind

**As much as I like writing Template of a Hero, I want to see what people will think of this story. **It will end up being a collection of one-shots with comical intent, and the Dragonborn will not necessarily be the main character. He may show up at some point, though, but I've yet to decide on that. ******I'll probably add to this story at my ****leisure when I want to write something other than Template of a Hero, but I am by no means abandoning ToaH. With that said, enjoy.**

* * *

><p>"Triarii! GET INTO POSITIONS!"<p>

At Arminius's command, a phalanx of Imperial Triarii spearmen, armored with chain mail and bearing broad shields, began to crawl towards the Dragon attacking Solitude. The great beast had been harrying the city's defenses for several minutes prior, but now it had decided to land, giving the ground troops a chance to attack it for once.

There was a horrible crunching sound as the Dragon clamped its jaws down on a soldier before he disappeared down its maw. The wyrm turned its attention to the phalanx approaching it and parted its jaws to unleash a huge gout of flame down the center of the spear wall. Half the men in the phalanx were incinerated, and those that weren't decided to charge the beast instead of advancing in formation. The Dragon met the spearmen head-on. A ram with its huge head sent a couple of soldiers flying, instantly dead. A lash out with its wing claw, and it skewered another soldier straight through his shield. Several Triarii stabbed at the monster with their long spears, but the spearheads would not penetrate the thick plate scales on the thing's back.

Arminius watched helplessly as another soldier that had gotten too close was turned into Dragon food. "Damn it! Why aren't the ballistas firing?" he asked his second-in-command beside him, a grim-faced Imperial named Severus.

"The Dragon's below their line of fire, the ballistas can't get a bead on it," Severus replied simply. There was a great roar of flame as the Dragon incinerated another squadron of Imperial soldiers. The incessant twang of crossbows and war bows filled the air as archers rained their projectiles down from above, but scarcely any arrows or bolts stuck into the Dragon's seemingly-impenetrable hide. How were they supposed to kill this thing if nothing could punch through its armor?

"This is getting out of hand! That Dragon is going to eat our entire garrison!" Arminius shouted. "We need to kill that thing, now!"

"Well, there's always… you know… _that _idea," Severus mentioned cryptically.

Arminius's eyes widened as he turned to regard his second. "What? No, you don't mean… _that _plan?"

"Oh yes," Severus replied, nodding. "_That _plan."

"The ludicrous plan?"

"Yes, sir."

"The one that we swore that we would never use lest it be in the most dire of circumstances?"

"Indeed."

"The unbelievably confusing and indescribable plan, which no mortal or immortal being on this world has ever seen the like of before?"

"The very one."

"…Okay, I've forgotten it. Which plan was it again?"

"Who made _you_ the captain?" Severus grumbled, face-palming. He looked back at Arminius. "Look, you'll remember in a little while. I'm going to go get the radio."

"The what?" Arminius asked, but it was too late. Severus had already gone back inside the castle.

Arminius looked back at the ensuing battle, just in time to see a guard be sent flying into a wall by the Dragon's tail. The Triarii were now terribly reduced to about a fourth of their original number, but now the swordsmen had all managed to organize themselves. They were surrounding the Dragon and slashing at it from all sides. The beast thrashed angrily with its tail, claws, and head, breathing out some flame every now and then that incinerated a few more guards.

The great wyrm finally tired of being poked at from all sides, and it rose into the air on great, leathery wings. The moment it was high enough, the ballistas drew a bead on it and launched their bolts. Several ballista bolts pinged off its armor, but he saw one punch through the Dragon's belly, making it scream in pain. The Dragon then flew at the offending siege weapon while it was still reloading and crushed the artillery in its jaws as it passed by. Noticing the other ballistas, the Dragon began to pick them off as well.

As if things weren't bad enough, another roar sounded off in the distance, revealing itself to be a second Dragon. This one dove down and snatched an archer in its jaws as it passed one of the castle's parapets. The archers began to converge and focus their fire upon the nearest Dragon, while the battlemages and ballistas began to focus on the second one. The focus of the fire was too thinly spread, and neither side did much aside from whittle away at the Dragon's armor.

"I'm back, sir," Severus said from behind.

"Thank the gods!" Arminius replied, turning to face him, "Things have gotten worse, now there's two… what the hell is that?"

"This is the radio," Severus replied, holding it up.

"How's _that _supposed to help kill these bloody things? Can it shoot fireballs?"

"No."

"Ice spikes?"

"No. And before you ask, no, it can't shoot lightning bolts either."

Arminius shut his mouth.

"What it _can _do," Severus replied, "is call in for help."

"Then do it! We need all the help we can get!" Arminius told him, turning back to watch the fight. He grimaced as one of the Dragons swallowed a praetorian. "How are these things not dead yet? You'd think that with all we're throwing at them—"

"YES! HELLO?" Severus shouted from behind. "YES? YES! WE NEED HELP!"

"Severus, who are you talking to?"

"Shh!" Severus hissed, turning his attention back to the radio. "WE NEED AIR SUPPORT IN THE AREA! NOW!"

"Arminius! Stop talking to that thing you look like a maniac—"

"YES WE NEED IT NOW! …THEN GET THEM IN THE AIR! UNDERSTOOD? GOOD!"

Severus slammed the headpiece down on the receiver. "I got us the help we needed."

"What? How? All you did was yell into that metal piece you put to your mouth."

"That's what a radio is for, moron," Severus growled. "Gods, I swear that sometimes you forget the most important things… That _metal piece _I was yelling at is going to give us reinforcements."

"Reinforcements? From where?"

"From the sky."

Arminius looked around them. "Really? Because all I see are the Dragons. Which are still burning everything, in case you haven't noticed."

"They're not here yet, you idiot. Give them a few minutes."

"Will the rest of the city still be here in a few minutes?"

"Hell if I know. We're getting carved up like a baked turkey at a dinner!"

Another roar, and the Dragon burnt another few legionaries to a crisp. Arminius scented the air briefly. "Yeah. We're starting to smell like baked turkey too. Say, what do you think Dragon tastes like? Chicken?"

"Wow. Even for you, Arminius, that was fast. Just like that, you go from _OH GODS THE DRAGON IS KILLING EVERYONE _to _I wonder what Dragon tastes like_."

"I'm sorry! I just can't stand thinking about everything those Dragons are doing down there—"

"Oh look, the air support has finally arrived."

"The… what?" Arminius asked, swiveling his head around. Just as he did so, one of the Dragons who was just about to bite down on yet another guard exploded.

A great fireball consumed the wyrm, and the blackened, reptilian corpse fell from the sky. Before it had even hit the ground, the second Dragon erupted into a fireball as well, and it went down as a smoking ruin of charred, scaly meat.

Arminius, slack-jawed, watched the two bodies smash lifelessly into the ground. He turned back to Severus, who was grinning smugly at him. "Betcha wish you'd remembered about the radio earlier, huh?"

"What… was that?"

Just then, a couple of grey blurs shot overhead faster than anything in existence. A second after their passing, the air roared like thunder, forcing Arminius to cringe and clamp his hands over his ears.

"Gods! What the hell?!" he looked up. "What the hell are _those?!__"_

"Those would be F-22 Raptors," Severus replied, watching the shark-shaped figures banking towards them in the sky. "Those AIM-9s can pack a hell of a punch."

The jet fighters shot overhead one final time, roaring as large plumes of flame and smoke billowed out form behind them, and they once again became receding dots in the distance, flying past the speed of sound.

"Well. That would have been nice to use. Why didn't we call them in earlier?" asked Arminius, glancing sidelong at Severus.

Severus shrugged. "Mostly because it's against the rules. We broke them this time because… you know, I'm not sure why it was suddenly okay to call in F-22s on a couple of Dragons. Maybe it's all in our heads. Who knows."

Arminius gave him a blank stare. "Eh… sure. Whatever. Let's go report back to the Queen. Severus, while I tell Elisif that we took care of the Dragons, I want you to go down to the kitchens and find the best cooks we have."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm still curious about what Dragon tastes like." He smiled. "I bet you it tastes like chicken."

Grumbling, Severus pushed open the doors to go back inside, and Arminius followed quickly after.


	2. The Sound of Eastmarch

The sun was high in the sky, shining down on the land in its full, blazing, late-afternoon glory, but standing outside his tent with the late-Autumn winds blowing past him, feeling as if there were Ice Wraiths coiling themselves around his legs, it felt to Legate Varus as if it was already the dead of winter.

"This blasted province is too bloody cold," he muttered to himself, doing his best to keep himself from shivering openly. It didn't help that the basic Imperial Army uniform consisted of an _armored skirt._ How had the Imperial Army overlooked such a glaring shortcoming? His men had been sent to the northernmost point in Tamriel, and nobody had thought to design the Imperial armor to better suit the cold?

Varus took a look at the Imperial military encampment surrounding him. Every soldier was sitting as close to the campfires without burning themselves as was conceivably possible. One of the Dunmer legionnaires had even gone as far as to conjure a Flame Atronach to heat up with, evidently deeming a simple campfire to be too inefficient. Varus wondered if Flame Atronachs had any sense of personal space — if so, then the Dunmer legionnaire was certainly invading it, despite the orange flames that nearly brushed his ashen blue skin. He seemed completely oblivious — or apathetic — to the strange looks he was getting from his fellow legionnaires.

Everyone else was content with sitting around their fires or wrapping themselves with enough blankets or furs to look like gigantic, fuzzy ticks with legs. Even so, it was a miracle how none of his men had gotten frostbitten privates… well, nobody in _his_ legion, at least. He wouldn't be surprised to hear it from one of those legions stationed up in Solitude, though.

At least the metal riveted onto the leather of their skirts weighed them down so that they weren't flapping in the breeze — otherwise, every soldier in the Imperial military camp would very quickly learn more about their comrades than they ever would have wanted every time the wind picked up. Varus shuddered at the thought. _That _was certainly the cloud's silver lining, if there had been any to begin with.

A horse-mounted Imperial scout came into view, approaching him at a canter. Varus watched expectantly as the Bosmer reined his horse in and came to a stop just a few feet shy of the tent. "What do you have to report, soldier?" he asked.

"The Stormcloaks have amassed on the plains, near the forest's edge, just as we expected," the elf reported. "Footmen are concentrated right at the tree-line, and the few archers they have are situated within the forest behind the front ranks of foot soldiers. Their cavalry is also positioned in the forest, on the flanks. It looks like we outnumber them, sir."

Varus nodded determinedly. "Then there's no time to waste. Captain Marius!" he called, catching the attention of a tan-skinned Imperial at his side, "We march to the East! Get the legion moving, now!"

About half an hour later, Legate Varus found himself atop his armor-plated Imperial charger, surrounded by his mounted praetorian bodyguards, riding at the head of his cohort's regiment of Imperial Armored Horse — about 1,000 horsemen in total — alongside the 3,000 Imperial foot soldiers in his legion, all marching for the field where they would meet and do battle with the Stormcloak host. Truly, Legate Varus' legion was a sight to behold. Ulfric's dogs were going to soil their smallclothes when they caught sight of them, four-thousand strong. The legion began to ascend a hill. When Varus finally crested the hilltop, he got his first sight of the Stormcloak army that was to battle them.

Just as the Bosmer scout had reported, all the Stormcloak footmen had gathered into three columns, with the edge of the forest a few yards behind them, to the East. Varus thought he could spy the meager force of archers the Stormcloaks had brought to bear — _probably all peasant archer militia, _Varus thought derisively; he had no respect for militia. He could also see some of the mounted soldiers Ulfric's men had taken with them into this battle. All of it was light cavalry, of course, swift and lightweight horses without a single plate of armor on them — nothing like the heavy, armored destriers that Varus' own men rode into this battle.

"It seems like these Stormcloaks have gathered quite a measly welcome party for our legion, Legate," Captain Marius sneered beside him.

"Seems like it," Varus replied, lifting his viewing scope and scanning the battlefield once again with the help of the instrument. The footmen on the front ranks were all equipped with one-handed weapons and shields — there was not a pike or spear in sight. How come pole-arms never gained a foothold in Skyrim? What was it about the concept of a sharp piece of metal at the end of a long stick that was too difficult for the Nords of Skyrim to grasp?

"No pikes or spears to worry about," Varus commented, lowering his viewing scope. "This is going to be too easy of a fight. We won't even need the infantry for this; send out the order for all the horsemen to charge, Marius. Wedge formation behind me. We'll drive our heavy cavalry right into their center and punch through their lines."

The Captain nodded, then blew a series of notes on his horn. The horn blasts caused the standard-bearers for the Imperial cavalry to signal out the commander's orders. The entire 1000-man strong regiment of Imperial Armored Horse lined up behind Legate Varus and his personal bodyguard, the steel tips of their lances glinting coldly overhead in the afternoon sun. Varus drew his heavy Imperial cavalry sword, but just when he was about to give the order to charge, Marius drew his attention again. "Legate! There's movement amongst the enemy's footmen!"

"Are they already routing?" Varus asked snidely, fishing out his viewing scope again and putting it to his eye. He could see the Stormcloaks on the front ranks shifting around, allowing several of their fellows to move up. Varus couldn't see who these newcomers were, but they must've been important — they were making their way to the very front of the enemy army. When they finally broke off from the rest of the foot soldiers, Varus quirked an eyebrow up at what he saw.

"…Legate? Are you seeing what I am seeing?"

"Yes, Captain, I see them," Varus remarked, hardly believing it himself. "Stormcloak soldiers… wearing skirts."

And indeed they were. The fabric of the Stormcloaks' skirts was of a dark blue hue, in the standard Stormcloak color scheme. They had tartan designs on them that Varus could just barely make out thanks to the high magnification granted by his viewing scope.

When a West-bound headwind suddenly picked up and lifted the Stormcloaks' skirts, Varus quickly learned just how powerful the magnification of his viewing scope truly was.

"And here I was, thinking that the Imperial army would be the only ones stupid enough to wear skirts into battle with nothing underneath," Marius commented dryly as Varus quickly tore his eye away from the viewing scope with a disgusted curl of his lip. "I thought the Stormcloaks had better sense than this. Why're they suddenly stealing our fashion? It's not like it's particularly comfortable or anything."

Varus shot him an admonishing look. "Captain, you do realize that you are making fun of the standard Imperial legionnaire uniform?"

Marius shrugged. "So? I stopped caring when I stopped being able to feel my own privates… _stupid Skyrim cold_," he added quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"You can warm up back at the encampment, when we finish crushing these whelps," Varus answered, turning back to look at the skirt-clad rebels. He cocked an eyebrow again when he noticed something especially odd about the already-peculiar Stormcloaks that had finally formed an unbroken line just a few yards in front of the main body of footmen. "Captain, what the crap are those things they're holding under their arms?"

He handed the Captain his viewing scope, and Marius took a look through it. After a moment of observation, he replied, "Looks like they're instruments, sir."

"Instruments? Really?" Varus asked in disbelief, accepting his returned viewing scope and looking through it again at the alien devices. "Those _things_ look like five flutes that grew a piss bladder. What kind of instruments are they?"

"Bagpipes, I believe," Marius responded with a grimace. "Ooh, I hate the sound of bagpipes. They make horrible music, at least in the opinion of those not blessed with deafness."

Varus set down his viewing scope. "Well, they can play their crappy music while we're cutting a bloody swathe through them." He drew his cavalry sword again. "Come on, men! We're going to drive these maggots back, and those bagpipers are going to be the first ones we cut down!"

With a smirk, he added, "If one of you manage to nail one of those skirt-wearing pansies with your lance, you can wave it around the air afterwards — instant flagpole!"

A roar of approval rose up from the ranks of amassed horsemen behind him. Varus raised his cavalry sword, letting the steel catch and reflect the sunbeams. "IMPERIAL ARMORED HORSE! CHARGE!" he bellowed, and half a heartbeat later his voice was drowned out as the rest of his horsemen took up the call.

The entire regiment of Imperial Armored Horse thundered down the hillside like the wave of a terrible steel-clad tsunami, the armored chargers quickly picking up speed as they made their downhill descent until it was as if Tiber Septim himself had granted their steeds winged hooves. Varus guided them towards the heart of the Stormcloak formation, feeling a surge of pride in his chest — truly, the rolling thunder of a heavy cavalry charge was an awe-inspiring sound. Shock and awe; that was the doctrine by which Imperial heavy cavalry lived.

The earth rumbled under the might of a four thousand steel-shod hooves as a thousand lances were couched to chest height, and despite it all the Stormcloak bagpipers at the front ranks of the rebel army did not balk, did not move, did not even flinch. They simply stood there, waiting, as they watched the inexorable approach of the entirety of Varus' mounted strength barreling towards them like the mail-clad, lance-tipped Fist of the Emperor.

Finally, at less than one hundred feet's worth of distance between them, close enough for Varus to see the whites of their eyes from underneath their open-faced helmets, the Stormcloaks opened their mouths. Varus could hear little over the thundering hooves of his Imperial heavy cavalry, but in that fleeting instant he thought that the Stormcloaks were screaming in terror…

Until they closed their mouths over the chanters of their instruments and blew air into them, _loudly_.

The air was filled with an ungodly screeching sound, a terrible noise that cut through the air like a javelin and pierced Varus' eardrums as the bagpipers finally played their hellish instruments. Varus' horse reared in response to the sudden shock of noise, screaming and flailing its hooves wildly, and at almost the same instant every single other horse in the front ranks followed suit, neighing and whinnying in sheer terror. The horses that did not stop in panic crashed into the rear of their fellow horsemen, sowing disorder amongst the regiment.

The Stormcloak musicians advanced now, briskly marching forward as they blew shrill, skirling notes on their pipes that caused the Imperial horses to shriek in fear. Just like that, the heavy cavalry charge was stopped, broken, and pushed back, as terrified horses threw off their riders and bolted in the opposite direction of the approaching bagpipes and their fear-inspiring sound.

The entire heavy cavalry regiment was in a state of chaos unlike any other Varus had seen. The sounds of screaming horses, shouting Imperial soldiers, and the cryptic drone of the bagpipes as they bleated out their strange and terrible music created such a din that the Legate thought he would go deaf, but it was not nearly enough to drown out the roar of two-thousand Stormcloak berserkers charging at the halted Imperial cavalry. Varus turned to see the entire host of Stormcloak footmen barreling towards them, their great swords and battle axes and war hammers raised in anticipation of great cleaving or smashing blows that would cut down the incapacitated heavy cavalry with relative ease.

Varus looked back at his own footmen and saw that they had already begun to rout — whether it was from the sight of musical instruments stopping the cavalry's charge dead in its tracks or the arrival of a second, larger host of Stormcloaks hidden in the forest, previously out of sight, Varus had no idea. For all he knew, the bagpipers had caused them to break and run as well.

"Screw this! I'm getting out of here!" he snarled, digging his heels into the flanks of his charger and whipping the reins. The horse whinnied and bolted off to the side, away from the chaos of the battlefield and the horrid sound of the bagpipes. Unfortunately, the sight of a lone Imperial commander breaking from formation was too tempting of a target to ignore; he quickly found himself being tailed by an entire squadron of Stormcloak light cavalry — and they were gaining. _They__'__re going to kill me! _Varus thought frantically, cursing his Legate helmet's gigantic red crest for making him such a brightly-colored, obvious target. He had no backup, all his cavalry was routing or dying by now, and now he was going to join them in the afterlif—

"_OH HOLY CRAP!" _Varus cried as he was suddenly thrown into an impossibly steep climb. His legs tightened around his horse's body as he threw his arms around its neck, causing the steed to suddenly come to a halt. Varus took several shaky breaths to calm his thrumming heart. Very slowly, the sweating Imperial turned his head to look over his shoulder.

It appeared that he had unwittingly driven his horse against the nearby mountainside, and now his charger was calmly standing on the sheer side of the mountain at nearly a ninety-degree angle, as if it were simply another regular day. He saw the ground, at least a ten-foot drop from where he sat — or _clung, _rather. The Stormcloak horsemen that had been chasing him were all staring up at him with looks of wry amusement on their faces.

"Looks like you're in a bit of a pickle, Imperial," one of them commented. "Need help gettin' down?"

Varus' nostrils flared angrily. "Piss off, Stormcloak! I don't need your help!" His horse suddenly shook its neck idly, and Varus clutched his charger's neck more tightly as his grip loosened.

"You're not gonna be able to hang on forever, armored as you are," another Stormcloak remarked. He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, "McTavish! Get your arse over here!"

"Aye?" asked the bagpiper that appeared on the scene a short while later, his blue tartan skirt and his right hand's claymore both stained with blood. Looking up at Varus,whose grip on his armored charger was loosening, the bagpiper managed to poorly stifle a guffaw. "Oh, 'at's a right funny sight if I ever saw 'un!"

The Stormcloak jerked a thumb at Varus. "This Legate's in need of a little assistance in gettin' down from the mountainside, McTavish. Why don't you give him a hand?"

"The pleasure's mine, boyo!" McTavish replied with a cheery grin. He picked up the chanter to his instrument and blew out a loud, shrill note.

Varus' horse whinnied and reared back in terror again, and for a split second, the Imperial Legate felt as if he were as light as a feather — until he crashed against the side of the mountain, tumbled through the air once, and landed heavily on his back, knocking all the wind right out of him.

"Oooh, 'at's got tae be smartin', there's nae doubt about 'at!" Varus dimly heard the bagpiper laugh as two of the stormcloaks grabbed his arms and forced him to his feet. They at least had the mercy of letting him catch his breath as they bound his hands with thick rope.

"It's too bad about your horsemen," the Stormcloak tying his hands together remarked, glancing back at what was left of Varus' cavalry. "I guess they don't quite appreciate good music like the true Sons and Daughters of Skyrim. What a pity." They began to lead their new prisoner back to their own encampment.

"I cannot believe," Varus finally managed once he'd regained his breath, "that an entire legion was broken and routed… by a few skirt-twirling bagpipers."

"OI! WOT DID YOU JUST SAY?!"

Varus found himself being forcibly turned around, only to receive a backhanded slap from McTavish that made his cheek sting. The Nord pointed a thick finger at Varus' nose, and shouted, "Never — NEVER — refer tae our _kilts _as skirts, ya bloody scunner! _Got it?_"

Stunned, Varus could only nod dumbly. They resumed marching him onward. The Legate released a weary sigh. Whatever these Stormcloaks had in store for him back at their camp, he only hoped that he wouldn't be forced to listen to more of their wretched music. If the Gods were good, he'd never have to hear another bagpipe again.

Of course, McTavish had to begin doing exactly that, starting off with a skirled note that sounded frightfully akin to a screaming banshee to Varus' ears which quickly developed into a sort of organized, developed cacophony that sounded like a bag of dying cats. Despite the fact, the other Stormcloaks began to smile and join in chorus.

_Listen all ye that hold communion_

_With Stormcloak __confederates so__ bold,_

_And __we'll tell you of some men for the Empire_

_Who in __Imperial ranks were enrolled;_

_They came to Eastmarch in their glory_

_And thought at their might we'd be dismayed;_

_But they soon had a different story_

_When they met Ulfric's Bagpipe Brigade!_

_When they met with the Bagpipe__ Brigade__,__ m__e__ boys_

_When they met with the Bagpipe__ Brigade__!_

_Didn't those faithless Imperials __tremble_

_When they met with the Bagpipe__ Briga__aaaaaaade?_

* * *

><p><strong>Just a little note to end this: this is all completely done with humorous intent. I personally don't dislike bagpipes — in fact, I actually really like them, especially when they're played by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (look them up on YouTube if you're curious!). This was just inspired by a little historical anecdote I read about Celts using bagpipes to scare enemy horses.<strong>

**Also, the Stormcloaks' song at the end is a parody of "Kelly's Irish Brigade", also on YouTube. **


End file.
